


Happy Endings Are Overrated

by sabaceanbabe



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:04:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabaceanbabe/pseuds/sabaceanbabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Mags' life, in reverse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Rebel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Poetry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poetry/gifts).



> Thank you, Deathmallow, for the beta. You rock. ♥

_13 July, 75_

The pain was excruciating. She struggled just to breathe as she lost control of her spasming muscles. Her fingers and lips began to tingle, the sensation oddly comforting as it momentarily distracted from the agony of burning skin. Mags closed her eyes – her eyesight was failing, anyway – clinging to the last sight of her boy, handsome and strong, as she fought to pull in one last breath. He had to live, and she was the only thing holding him immobile, unable to leave her behind and do the things they all needed him to do.

Resolute, she breathed in the poison as deeply as she could and opened her mouth to scream as the fog shorted out already overloaded nerves, turning the pain to blessed numbness, instead. There was no sound, her vocal chords ruined when she breathed in the gas.

 _Te amo, hijo de mi corazón._ Her last words to the green-eyed, bronze-haired boy, who’d grown into a good man in spite of the manipulations of Snow and the Capitol, rolled through her head like the tide. _Vivo, hijo. Vivo._

_4 July, 75_

“Volunteer!”

Mags shouted it at the top of her lungs, making sure they heard her over Annie’s screams. The child was hysterical, understandably so. The girl had begun to whimper when they called Finnick’s name; a soft word and Mags’ steady hand on her arm had quieted her, but hearing her own name called moments later, the realization that both she and her love were headed back to the arena, had pushed Annie over the edge. Knowing that Annie in the arena would be a death sentence for them both, these children so dear to her, Mags had done the only thing she could do.

“Me ofrezco…” she whispered in the language of her childhood. The Peacekeeper who escorted her up the stairs to the stage couldn’t possibly recognize the words, even if he heard them. And if he recognized it for the treason it was, what could he do about it, this late in the game?

 _It’s better this way_ , Mags thought as she took her place beside Finnick. It was better that her tired, worn out body, flesh and bone that no longer obeyed her will, die. Her death in the arena would give her boy – and by extension, the rebellion – a chance to live.

_21 July, 74_

A fierce excitement welled up within Mags as she watched the girl from 12 pour poison berries into her district partner’s waiting hand. The words wouldn’t come, the left side of her face, of her entire body, refused to work, paralyzed for who knew how long by the stroke that had left her confined to a hospital bed, tied there by tubes and damned noisy machines. But her voice still worked and she used it to gain her son’s attention. When he looked up from his book – always with his nose stuck in a book, her Camilo – she flailed toward the television with the one arm that still mostly worked.

“Mama? What is it? Do you need water?”

Frustrated, Mags hooted louder, gestured more emphatically toward the television in the corner of the room, and finally Camilo understood. Reaching for the remote, he unmuted it just as Claudius Templesmith announced the winners – winners! – of the 74th Hunger Games: Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark of District 12.

Mags couldn’t contain her laughter and didn’t try. Poor Camilo stared at her as though the stroke had destroyed her mind as well as crippling her body, but her mind, trapped as it might be, was as sharp as it ever was. She stared, smiling with half of her face and all of her will, at the dark-haired, gray-eyed girl who herself stared defiantly at the hovercraft descending to return her and the boy to the Capitol.

Katniss Everdeen was going to set President Coriolanus Snow’s world on fire, and Margreta Moreno wanted nothing more than to watch it burn.

_3 July, 74_

Dipping a supper plate into hot, soapy water, Mags watched Finnick and Annie from her kitchen window. Following the hearty supper she had prepared, they walked hand-in-hand along the beach, heading in the general direction of their house at the northern end of the cove. It had been an enjoyable meal, with Finnick keeping both women laughing about a crab that had somehow hitched a ride on one of his father’s fishing nets only to escape and terrorized the seiner’s crew.

It was good to see Annie so relaxed; the poor child never had an easy time of it, this close to the Games. Once Finnick was sure Annie would be alright for a little while alone, he would return to discuss tomorrow’s reaping. They had a list of several likely volunteer candidates this year, unless, of course, LaSalle called a child who might stand a chance in the arena.

She had first suggested that they train their children for the Games nearly sixty years ago. And though the men and women who held the positions had changed several times since then, the mayor and the head school master still chose not to field volunteers every year. Unlike their fellow “Career” districts. The mayor in particular maintained that a victory was better when earned, as if the honor of two dead children was somehow more acceptable than one live child and the extra food a victory bought the entire district because that child had been trained.

Closing her eyes, Mags ran her washrag over the smooth surface of the plate in her hands, remembering the warm presence of Ewen at her side, his steady hands waiting to take the clean plate from her. She had always enjoyed doing the dishes, the slippery heat of the soapy water on her hands, the rhythm of it, especially with her beloved Ewen. Gone almost twenty years, she still missed him so much sometimes that it took her breath away, always at odd moments like this.

Reaching over the sink to set the plate in the drying rack, it was as though a shadow fell over Mags. She blinked to try to clear her vision, but only her right eye cooperated. The world tilted to the left and shattered as she fell. Her left arm scraped across the counter, but she felt only a fuzzy sensation of pressure. Her head hit the floor with a sickening thud.

As she blacked out, she wondered if she was dying.

_5 July, 73_

“Congratulations, Plutarch,” Mags said with a smile. She raised her glass in salute and Plutarch Heavensbee nodded once in gracious acceptance.

“What’d you do?” Haymitch asked, one eyebrow raised high as he approached them from the hors d’oeuvre table. He lifted a champagne flute from a passing tray and tossed the contents back as though it was a shot of whiskey, grimacing at the taste. Mags laughed.

“Our Plutarch has been promoted,” she murmured when Haymitch was close enough, her voice loud enough for the two men to hear her, but soft enough to foil the inevitable listening devices. “With any luck at all, he’ll be Head Gamemaker in a year or two.”

“Well, it might take a little longer than that,” Heavensbee demurred. “Crane is young and quite talented.”

“Sticks in your craw, don’t it, him getting it before you?” Heavensbee frowned at the victor from 12 and Mags reached up and swatted the back of Haymitch’s head. “Hey!”

“Behave, boy. Plutarch’s promotion is right on schedule. Any faster and we’d have our dear president looking into his background personally.” She lifted her glass to her lips and looked past Haymitch and Plutarch to the colorful crowd of Capitolites fussing over the dozen or so victors in the courtyard. The younger, more attractive ones, not like her and Haymitch. Her gaze fell on Finnick and Johanna, surrounded by a flock of admirers. “We’ve worked too hard to get where we are, my friends. With the Quell coming, we need to be careful.”

_22 July, 72_

From her console in the control room, Mags watched as the massive boy from District 2 pushed her tribute from the edge of the cliff into the depths of the abandoned quarry. She heard the report of a cannon over her headset a moment later; her monitor changed abruptly to static as the boy’s vital signs flatlined and she pulled her headset off. Luis Montero had been their first real hope, but that hope lay dead at the bottom of a rocky pit.

The rebellion would have to wait another year.

_28 July, 70_

“What do we do, Mags?” Finnick asked, a thread of near-panic in his voice. It was only his second time out as a mentor, his first time in the control room during either a major crisis or with a tribute who had a real chance at surviving.

Mags watched the roiling, swirling flood waters on the screen, glanced at the girl’s vital signs on the monitor. Her pulse and respiration both were near the top of the scale, but that wasn’t surprising. Nor was it alarming, in and of itself. Not under the circumstances. She laid a calming hand on Finnick’s knee.

“We wait, hijo. Annie is a strong swimmer.” She nodded toward the chaotic scene in the arena, the feed that showed the girl riding out the waves, bobbing to the surface for a great gulp of air before the currents dragged her under once more. “She’ll sink or swim on her own, boy, and there’s not a thing we can do for her. Not right now.”

_8 July, 68_

Finnick slunk into the District 4 suite and headed to his room, doing his level best to avoid detection. Concerned, Mags called his name, but he didn’t stop, just hunched his shoulders and tried to make himself look smaller. Moving more quickly through the room, the boy didn’t say a word and he wouldn’t meet her eyes. Ignoring Phineas LaSalle’s questions, Mags followed her boy with a sinking heart.

He had closed the door behind him, but it had no lock – none of the doors in the Training Center living quarters did – and when a light knock elicited no response, Mags opened it in time to see Finnick hurl his expensive jacket at the corner near the bathroom. It fell in a crumpled heap to the floor as he yanked his thin shirt over his head and sent it sailing through the air after the jacket. He reached the bathroom and switched on the light, illuminating at least a dozen bright red welts on his back, a couple of them oozing blood.

“Madre de Dios…” Mags gasped, striding across the room toward him. Finnick whirled around, cutting off her sight of the damage; he grabbed at the door jamb with one hand to steady himself when his movement turned out to be a little too fast. A flash of fear on his expressive face caught at her heart and she stopped a few feet away.

“Damn it, Mags, don’t do that here.” He didn’t refer to her sneaking up on him, and she laughed bitterly.

“It’s nothing those who listen haven’t heard before.” Even so, she said nothing else in Castellan. Taking a couple of steps closer to him, she reached out to touch his right collar bone, where some of the angry red marks extended over his shoulder, but he stumbled backward, desperate that she not touch him. Mags jerked her hand away as if stung.

The boy’s eyes were nearly black, his pupils dilated to the point there was only a thin line of green remaining, and he held himself so utterly still just then that she could see the tattoo of his pulse racing beneath the skin of his throat. Swallowing her questions and her worry, she breathed deeply to calm her own racing pulse.

“Don’t forget we have a mandatory party this evening,” she told him when she wanted nothing more than to gather him in her arms and tell him that it would all be okay, even though it would have been a lie. Finnick blinked a couple of times and straightened, standing a little taller, and some of the trapped look leached out of his too dark eyes.

“I know, Mags.” He looked down at the marks on his skin, stared at them a moment before looking back up at her. “I probably should have just gone straight to Remake, but…” He shrugged, trying for nonchalance, but not quite achieving it. “I need a shower.” He started to close the bathroom door, taking a step back into the light and drawing Mags’ gaze again to the painful-looking welts. She started to offer him something to help with the pain, but stopped, leaving the words unsaid. Instead, she nodded and turned away, feeling sick inside. _Sweet Mother, he’s only seventeen._

“Do me a favor, boy,” she said when she reached the door, aware that he still stood in the bathroom doorway, watching her. “Try not to mix alcohol with the drugs.”

*

Mags rested her arms on the low wall that surrounded the Training Center roof and watched the city lights below as she waited for Haymitch Abernathy. From this high up, the Capitol was a beautiful, if cold, sight, but Mags didn’t really see the tableau laid out before her. Instead, she replayed in her mind the party she’d just left, the sight of Finnick with the much older woman who had bought his company for the evening, and earlier that afternoon, when he’d returned from “entertaining” one of his less civilized “patrons.” She hated that they all simply accepted such things as normal; it had become part of being a victor, at least for some, just as it had become normal to let their children be pieces in a deadly game, year after year.

The sound of the wind chimes scattered throughout the gardens behind her masked Haymitch’s approach, but even so, it was no surprise when he joined her at the wall. The two of them stood side by side for a moment, breathing in the illusion of freedom that the rooftop gardens always seemed to give. He offered her a drink from the bottle he held, but Mags demurred and he shrugged and drank from it himself.

Swallowing whatever liquor was in the bottle, Haymitch began, “After our talk last year, I got to thinking…” He paused, considering what he wanted to say. “I’ve done a lot of thinking over the years, sitting in that damned control room.” The wind that was as much a fixture of the Training Center rooftop as the gardens tugged at Mags’ hair, pulling some of it free from the chignon someone had decided she should wear for the party; she brushed away the resulting tickle.

“I have no doubt of that, boy.” Haymitch had been the sole mentor to two children for his district every year since the last Quarter Quell. She and a few of the others gave him what support they could; no one should go through the Capitol’s damned Games alone.

Laughing, Haymitch leaned in a little closer to Mags. “You and Greasy Sae are the only two people I know who call me ‘boy.’” She had no idea who Greasy Sae was and she didn’t want to be up here for what remained of the night.

“These old bones are tired, Haymitch,” she told him, a bit of a bite in her tone as she glanced over her shoulder at him. He nodded once, short and sharp.

“Every year, it seems, things get worse in the districts, rising quotas for coal or shrimp or cloth. They tell us the higher quotas are to make up for some shortfall, but they never seem to go back down again.” Listening intently, she wondered where he was going with this, although given his desire for privacy, she had her suspicions. “And every year we have twenty-three dead kids to go along with it just plain getting harder to live.” He looked away from Mags then, back out over the city lights, and took another swallow from the bottle. “In spite of what the Capitol promises, it ain’t a damned picnic for that one kid who survives.”

“It never has been,” she told him. “But it has indeed become worse with the years.” Looking over at Mags once more, Haymitch turned his back on the city.

“There is one thing we victors have going for us.” She raised her eyebrows in question. “Come Games time, we get to go to the Capitol, travel across other districts to get there. We can see what it’s like for ourselves and talk to people, even if it is only once a year.” He drinks again. “Twice, if one of our kids happens to make it.” Mags’ heart beat faster, fueled by a growing excitement. “Most of us enjoy a level of respect within our own districts. We all of us do what the Capitol tells us to do.” He grinned down at her and lowered his voice. “But what if we didn’t?”

A measure of terror at what he proposed filled her, but then she remembered Finnick with his arm around the waist of a woman old enough to be his mother, the awful marks on his back, Gloss in the embrace of one of the president’s advisors when she knew for a fact the boy would rather be in his room with a book.

“It won’t be easy,” Haymitch continued. “But if we’re smart about it, if we take it slow and steady, we could make a change.”

Mags remembered a time before the Capitol. She had known freedom once. Her papa and brother had fought to keep that freedom, had fought for the right of their people to live their lives as they chose. But her papa and brother had died and the freedom they had fought so hard for died with them. Even her mother had died because of the Capitol. She didn’t have to think about what Haymitch proposed; her decision had long since been made.

“Woof will join us,” she told Haymitch, thinking of the elder victor from 8. Woof had said things recently that indicated he, too, was concerned for his district. “We need to keep it small, for now, and recruit people only as we need them.”

_2 August, 67_

Raising her face to the sun, Mags closed her eyes and listened to the gulls as they wheeled and dove toward the water. The waves broke against the sand, their rhythm soothing. She breathed deeply, letting the scents and sounds of the sea wash over her; soon enough the salt of it would wash over her, too, or at least over her bare feet. She wondered if it could wash her away, or if she’d allow it to happen, given the opportunity.

Finnick wouldn’t talk to her, wouldn’t even look at her. And she didn’t blame him. She’d done what she could for him, called Haymitch, hoping he could help the boy through it, this thing they both shared. Mags was too old when Snow came to power for anyone to be interested in using her the way they had once used Haymitch or the way they now used her sweet boy. He was only sixteen. Only sixteen.

The tears ran unchecked down her cheeks. _We can’t go on like thi_ s, she thought. _They promise us that it ends when we leave the arena, but it doesn’t end. It never ends._

“Dulce madre de Dios,” she whispered, the words dredged from her memories, a mantra her mother once used when she needed more strength than she thought she had, “esto debe terminar.”

_Sweet mother of God, this must end._


	2. The Victor

_10 July, 65_

Mags had been fifteen when she won her Games; only two or three others in the history of the Games had been so young. It was an unwritten rule in District 4 that they wouldn’t send anyone under the age of fifteen to the arena, a rule Mags’ own efforts had been instrumental in putting into place. She knew there were at least three older boys trained and ready when District 4’s Capitol representative called Finnick Odair’s name. Yet no one stepped forward to take his place and the headmaster let the reaping stand.

Thus Mags was in the Capitol with her goddaughter’s son, accompanying him to what everyone, herself included, believed would be his death, and trying to prepare him for his interview with Caesar Flickerman. Finnick was a smart boy, and because he was smart, he was scared, though he showed that to no one save Mags. But, scared though he was, Finnick wanted to live and Mags had done her best over the past week of training to help him achieve that goal. Besides, she didn’t think she could face Jenna and Tom if she returned their youngest child to them in a box.

“So what am I supposed to say, Mags?” Finnick asked, bringing her full attention back to him. “How do I make them like me so I can get sponsors?”

Finnick was a sweet child, a handsome boy, tall for his age. His looks and intelligence came from both of his parents. Remembering what had become of Cashmere and Gloss and some of the other young victors, bile rose in the back of Mags’ throat as she stroked the side of Finnick’s face and told him, “Oh, hijo, you won’t have to work at all to make them fall in love with you.”

_20 April, 60_

Connor Moreno entered the world reluctantly, almost a week beyond his due date and kicking and screaming his little lungs out in protest. He was Mags’ fourth grandchild and his birth was the death of his mother. As the daughter-in-law of District 4’s first victor, Katrin had the best medical care available in the best medical facility District 4 had to offer; no one had thought things were serious enough to merit transportation to the Capitol. The care she received should have been enough to save her, but it wasn’t.

They almost lost little Connor, too, but moments after Katrin took her last breath, Mags made a brief phone call. The number she called connected her directly to President Snow. “It won’t happen again, Mr. President,” was all she said. Within hours, while the infant boy struggled to stay alive, a specialist arrived from the Capitol and within minutes after that, Connor was breathing on his own, his color returning to normal.

Resting her forehead against the glass window that separated her from her grandson, unable to take her eyes off him, Mags vowed to never again cross Coriolanus Snow, to never again protest the abuses he visited on the younger victors.

Not where he might hear of it.

_4 January, 55_

Mags was just taking her leave of the Mayor of District 2 when a runner caught up with young Martin, just a few feet ahead of her. “Mr. Perch!” the girl shouted as she approached, waving a cream-colored envelope as she ran. At seventeen, Martin couldn’t have been much older than the girl. Mags smiled at the stars in the child’s eyes as she stared at Panem’s – and District 4’s – newest victor. Martin said something to her that made her blush as she handed him the envelope and then whirled around to continue on her way. Mags was somewhat impressed that the girl only glanced back at Martin once before she disappeared around a corner.

When Mags came up beside him, Martin glanced down at her and then looked once more at the envelope in his hand. She didn’t recognize the elegant handwriting that formed Martin’s name in bright blue ink. “What are you waiting for, boy? Open it.” It wasn’t as though there was anything else to do while they waited for two sets of Peacekeepers – their retinue and those who acted as guards for the mayor – to coordinate. One set or the other would eventually escort them to their rooms for this stop on Martin’s Victory Tour.

“I think this may be my first piece of fan mail,” Martin remarked as he tore open the envelope. The half smile he wore turned to a frown as he read. “I don’t understand what this means, Mags.” He handed her the note.

_Lydia Croesus, a close friend and one of your primary sponsors, has expressed her interest in you joining her for dinner and other activities this evening. A car will arrive for you at six o’clock to take you to her home. Your other obligations as a victor are suspended until nine o’clock tomorrow morning. – C.S._

“Mags?” She jumped at the sound of Martin’s voice. “Are you okay?” He reached out to take the note back from her and only then did she realize she was shaking.

_28 July, 54_

The Games that year lasted ten days and Mags returned from the Capitol with a new victor in tow. Martin Perch was a likeable young man, a volunteer who won by using his brain, by wits and stealth rather than brawn. Although he was trained – a Career tribute by any standards – he was by no means the favorite to win, had, in fact, killed the favorite, a boy from District 1 on whom even President Snow had placed bets. Mags had questioned those bets when she heard about them, asking if the rules had changed, but she never received an answer.

Clandestine presidential bets aside, Martin had won and Mags was home again three weeks after she left, but she returned to a silent and empty house. Ewen hadn’t been at the train station to greet her. His boat wasn’t in the boat house, nor did she find a note waiting for her. She tried to call Angel to ask if the younger victor knew where he might be, but the phones weren’t working again – they didn’t always – so she walked next door and knocked.

“Hello, Angel, dear.” Mags smiled when Angel opened the door, but her smile faltered when the younger woman didn’t return it. “I’m looking for Ewen. Have you seen him?” Angel’s knuckles went white where she gripped the edge of the door.

“Oh, Mags, they didn’t tell you.” She frowned and dread squeezed Mags’ heart, refusing to let go, but she forced the words out.

“Tell me what?”

“There was a storm three days ago. It came up out of nowhere. Ewen’s boat went down. There were no survivors.”

Feeling as though Angel had just ripped her heart and lungs both from her chest, Mags turned and, without another word, walked down the beach, away from the houses. Away from the pain. Except the pain was everywhere. _There were no survivors._ Mags didn’t stop walking until she was waist deep in the water, and when she finally did stop, she began to howl.

_18 December, 51_

Mags held the infant boy in her arms while Ewen made faces at him over her shoulder; little arms pumped the air and tiny dimples formed as the baby laughed. At two months old, Finnick Odair was already a charmer with big green eyes and a ready smile.

“Mama Mags!” She looked down at the girl tugging at her skirt and into eyes as green as baby Finnick’s. “Give Finn to Papa Ewen and come dance with us!” Mags looked a question at Ewen, whose answer was to gently take Finnick from Mags.

“Go,” he told her with a nod toward the dance floor. There were already several couples there. Chief among the dancers was Mags’ and Ewen’s son Camilo, who bowed low to Katrin, his new bride; Mags found Katrin a bit boring, but Camilo loved her. “You and I will dance later,” Ewen continued, bringing her attention back to him, “when there aren’t so many impressionable youngsters around.” He winked at her, dark eyes full of promise, and then gave her a chaste kiss on her forehead. Mags turned back to the little girl, hopping impatiently from one foot to the other in time with the music.

“How could I possibly refuse you?” she laughed, and Shandra Odair dragged Mags by the hand toward a line of other little girls who stood off to the side, waiting for someone to lead them in the reel. Still laughing, Mags called over her shoulder to Ewen, “Are you sure you don’t want to join us, love?”

Shaking his head no, Ewen responded exactly as Mags knew he would. “I think Finn and I will sit this one out.” She loved him dearly, but sometimes the great lout was a giant stick in the mud. Although there was his promise of more interesting dancing later…

_25 July, 48_

Mags had counted on a win. It had been a bad year for 4, they needed the oil and grain that a win would have brought, but watching the ethereal Wiress of District 3 as she interacted with Caesar Flickerman on stage in the girl’s final interview, she thought that perhaps it was just as well.

Ugly rumors had run through the victors’ lounge that year. Rumors that the most popular victors were available to the wealthy citizens of the Capitol, for a price.

She hoped for young Wiress’ sake that those rumors weren’t true.

_20 January, 46_

Standing before the presidential mansion, Coriolanus Snow, newly sworn in as the President of Panem, raised a hand in greeting to the crowds gathered there. Mags snuggled back further into Ewen’s warm arms as they watched the ceremony from the comfort of their living room.

_“Citizens of Panem, I thank you for the trust you have put in me…”_ Mags muted the volume, not wanting to listen to the man’s cultured voice or political posturing. She’d gotten enough of that during the campaign.

“I wonder if he’ll do a better job than old Janus?” Ewen said and she snorted.

“I don’t see how he could do any worse.”

_4 July, 40_

She wasn’t aware of the pain until she unclenched her fists. Looking at her palms, she saw four red crescents in each where her fingernails had broken the skin. They stung a bit as the air kissed them, but she didn’t care.

At eighteen, her Camilo wasn’t just safe from the Games for one more year; he was safe from the _Games._

_23 September, 36_

The salty breeze used strands of Mags’ hair, pulled loose from the complicated knot at the nape of her neck, to tickle her cheeks and forehead, but even that didn’t distract her – much – from the ceremony that played out against the backdrop of the setting sun. As her goddaughter exchanged her vows of marriage with Thomas Odair, the son of the boy she had once upon a time flirted with in school, Ewen’s hand caught hers and she glanced up at him. Smiling down at her, he squeezed her hand and then twined his fingers with hers.

Oh, how she wished she and he could have exchanged these same vows before the whole world instead of just in their hearts, but even so, they were still together, still allowed to be a family in private so long as they remained strangers in public. To her other side, Camilo fidgeted, ready for the ceremony to be finished and the celebration to begin. “Es casi terminado,” she whispered to the boy, unable to scold him as she normally would. The terror of nearly losing him to the Games when they called his name just a couple of months before was still too fresh.

Setting aside such grim thoughts, Mags returned her attention once more to the happy couple. Jenna’s radiance rivaled that of the sunset and Mags couldn’t help but think that she and Thomas would produce beautiful children.

_4 July, 36_

Standing on the stage in front of what seemed was the entire country, Mags held her breath and forced her expression to remain calm. Inside, she was screaming. Inside, she was dying. _He’s only fourteen._

“Camilo Moreno,” District 4’s Capitol escort repeated, “please join us on stage.” Mags’ heart pounded so hard she thought it might break free from her chest. She felt herself slipping as her vision whited out at the edges. A high-pitched whining – her own voice keening – overrode all other sound until…

“I volunteer!” A young man stepped forward, separating himself from the rest of the eighteen-year-olds and sight and sound and air rushed into Mags once more.

If anyone noticed her stumble on stage, catching herself before she could fall, no one ever mentioned it to her.

_23 June, 28_

The cool grass on which Mags sat was already turning brown at the tips as the weather grew hotter and drier. Classes were over for the day, but it would still be another couple of hours before the workday was finished, and so Mags watched over the younger children as they played. Waiting for their parents or siblings who worked on the trawlers or docks or in the canneries to pick them up from the school, they ranged in age from six to twelve years old.

When several Career students passed by, animatedly role-playing what they would do if reaped, Mags’ charges paused to watch and listen. Although they resumed playing when the older children were gone, they were less carefree, their voices louder and shriller than before. It was as though a black cloud had drifted over their heads and brought with it fear. They tried to hide it, to cover it with bravado and manic behavior, but it didn’t change the fact that, of their group, Corin Santiago and his friend Thomas Odair were of reaping age this year.

Mags rolled to her feet and brushed bits of dead grass from her shorts and from where it stuck to the backs of her thighs; six children, the youngest of them her own Camilo, looked her way almost in unison. She didn’t think about what she was doing as she crossed the field to join them. All she could think about was giving them something to help them combat the fear. Getting a toe under their ball, which had come to rest near to where Mags broke their circle, she flipped it into the air and caught it.

“What is this called?” she asked them, bouncing the ball from hand to hand and grinning at their consternation.

“It’s a ball, Aunt Mags,” Jenna responded with a roll of her eyes. At ten years old, Jenna thought she knew everything, and it wouldn’t surprise Mags if that was true.

“And do any of you know another word for it?” Not one of them had an answer for her. She tossed the ball lightly toward her little know-it-all. “Because I do,” she said as Jenna caught the ball in self-defense. Mags didn’t miss the amused glance Corin and Thomas shared before Corin snatched the ball from his little sister.

“What other word, Aunt Mags?” he asked.

Nodding that he should throw the ball back to her, when she caught it, she told them, “When I was your age, it was ‘la pelota.’”

“Why did it change?”asked Dawson Salazar, Ewen’s youngest nephew. Weighing her words carefully, mindful that what she was about to do was technically an act of treason, she tossed the ball to nine-year-old Dawson and told them all of how the Capitol outlawed the language of her childhood. She taught them a few words of Castellan, Corin and Thomas in particular, telling them that reciting the words, especially conjugating the verbs, could help them to keep the fear at bay.

By the time that first lesson was over, she had a small group of children eager to learn a secret new language yet sworn to secrecy, and a pair of boys no longer quite so frightened of their looming first Reaping Day.

_18 February, 22_

Her son was born on a blustery winter day. Low clouds scudded across the sky, blown about and blown apart by the wind that howled around the eaves and slipped into the house like a thief past imperfect seals. It was a day without electricity, not an uncommon occurrence, and the candle flames leapt and jumped, dancing with the breeze that stole through the house. It became so chilly in Mags’ bedroom that Ewen finally nailed a blanket over the window, just to keep those breezes out; once he did that, both the light and the heat from the battery-powered unit stabilized.

Aleen – her sister by choice, if not birth, and, in fact, her cousin – had urged Mags more than once to go to the clinic on the mainland. Small and with only one doctor on call to assist the half dozen trained nurses, it was the closest thing to a real hospital District 4 had. But Mags stubbornly refused to go. She had Ewen and she had the midwife; she didn’t need anything or anyone else. She wanted her baby to be born in her own home, even if that home was a product of the Capitol and more than a little isolated on Victor’s Island.

She also wanted her mother, almost desperately so, but that was an impossibility, so she clung to Ewen’s hand, pushed when the midwife told her to push, and clamped down on the screams that tried to rip free from her throat. She hadn’t screamed in the arena and she wasn’t going to do it now. It didn’t matter that there was no one there to hear it save the three of them.

After seventeen hours of labor, Camilo Namesio Moreno entered the world screaming loudly enough for both himself and his mother, but he quieted as soon as the midwife laid him on his mother’s chest.

Catching Ewen’s hand, Mags wove her fingers with his. “I wish he could have your name.” His gaze never leaving his son, Ewen knelt beside the bed and lifted their joined hands to his cheek.

“He has yours, love, he doesn’t need mine.”

_12 May, 18_

Mags helped Aleen walk a circuit around the tiny bedroom, their arms around each other’s waists. Allie had to stop every few steps to catch her breath, and every few minutes to wait for a contraction to pass. The midwife sat in the corner and timed the contractions, which were longer and stronger each time they came, the intervals between shorter and shorter.

Allie’s husband Etienne was at sea. The captain of the Capitol-owned trawler on which he worked hadn’t signed off on his request for leave, saying Allie would bring their child into the world whether Etty was there or not. Allie didn’t need Etty for the birth, but the ship needed him to work the winches. The growing family needed the money, and so Mags was with Allie to help with the birth of her second child while Ewen waited in the kitchen, entertaining eighteen-month-old Corin.

A whimper escaped Allie when another contraction stopped her in her tracks, her fingers digging into Mags’ waist. There’d be a series of tiny bruises there in the morning, but Mags didn’t mind. Allie had had a bad time of it with Corin, and Ewen had offered to drive her to the clinic in town, thirty miles to the north, but she’d refused, saying it was too far away over too rough a road.

“Won’t be long now,” the midwife intoned, laying aside her knitting. “Let’s get you settled, girl.” Between the two of them, she and Mags got Allie into the birthing chair that had belonged to Allie’s mother just as the strongest contraction yet drew a moan of pain from between parched lips. “Breathe, girl. Do not forget to breathe,” the midwife ordered even as she nodded for Mags to bring Allie some water to sip.

It was another hour before little Jenna Santiago entered the world. Allie clung to Mags’ right hand through it all; Mags was sure at one point that Allie had managed to crush every bone in that hand.

_17 September, 16_

“How many of you like to fish?” Mags asked of the dozen and a half twelve and thirteen year olds arranged in a semi-circle in front of her; four of them raised their hands. They all watched her every move as she twisted a small piece of wire and then proceeded to pull a bit of thread from the hem of her skirt. She enjoyed the look of confusion in Rissa Salazar’s eyes and even more her expression when Ewen’s younger sister figured out exactly what Mags was doing.

In case anyone from the Capitol audited the school’s revised curriculum, the course Mags taught was called “Life Skills.” In reality, she taught the children how to survive using little more than their wits and the things they found on their person or as part of their surroundings. The class was part of the new “Career Track,” loosely patterned on the training academy that was now in its third year in District 1. The academy in District 2 was too outright militaristic for Mayor Deenan to accept.

“But don’t you need a stick or something, Mags? I mean, Miss Moreno?” The girl watched Mags’ hands intently, as if memorizing the knot she tied with her impromptu fishing line around her less-than-elegant hook.

“A stick, Rissa?”

“As a fishing pole.” Mags had realized what she was going to say halfway through Rissa’s answer and laughed, delighted that she had figured it out on her own.

“Having a pole is nice, Rissa,” she told her as she completed the knot and allowed the hook to dangle from her fingers, “but it’s not necessary to survival.” Continuing the lesson, Mags showed them other things on their persons and in the classroom that they could use for catching fish; the children paid her rapt attention, hanging on her words.

_15 August, 15_

She should have made an appointment; Ewen had told her to, but the ideas buzzing around in her head made her impatient. Those ideas were too important to bog down in bureaucratic limbo; they could save the lives of their children. And, too, Mags didn’t want her own enthusiasm, which would help her to sell the ideas, to wane while she waited days or even weeks for an appointment with Mayor Deenan. Nothing less important could have forced Mags to visit District 4’s Justice Building outside of Reaping Day, a day when she had no choice in the matter.

A few minutes turned into more than two hours, time during which Mags alternated between pacing and looking out the window onto the town square. The faint sound of hammering drifted through the glass of the window as workers built what looked like it would eventually be an apartment building. She was on her third circuit of pacing when the Mayor’s assistant answered a call and then beckoned to Mags.

“Victor Moreno, the mayor will see you now,” she said and led Mags into the mayor’s office.

The large window to the left of the mayor’s desk looked out over a garden with a fountain in its center, the water sparkling in the late afternoon sun. That sunshine streamed into the office and pooled on the desk, which was made of dark wood, polished so smooth its surface looked almost like glass; the glare was blinding and Mags turned away from it.

Rounding the corner of her desk, Mayor Miranda Deenan held out her hand for Mags to shake. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, Victor Moreno.”

“Please, call me Mags.” She hated that convention, calling her “Victor” instead of “Miss” or simply using her name. It was supposed to show respect, but all it did as far as Mags was concerned was to mark her as “other,” as a woman who had killed to keep herself alive. There was no respect in that, only broken dreams, both those of the children she had killed and her own.

“Have a seat, Mags.” Deenan gestured toward a pair of chairs at an angle in front of her desk. Suddenly nervous, Mags shook her head.

“If you don’t mind, Madame Mayor, I’d prefer to stand.” What she’d truly prefer was to hurry back to Victor’s Island and to Ewen. _What was I thinking, coming here? The mayor isn’t going to listen to a proposal from a girl a third her age. I don’t know anything about education._

“It’s only fair that you call me Miranda, Mags,” the mayor said with a smile. “Your win in the Games did a great deal to raise up our district in the eyes of the Capitol.” Her tone of voice was neutral; Mags couldn’t tell if she was being diplomatic or if she honestly bought into what the Capitol sold about prestige and honor, glory and fame. If it was the latter, then she was sure to shoot down Mags’ ideas, formed while talking things out with Quintus of District 2 and Lyra of District 1 during a lull in the Games just past.

Mags’ tributes that year had only been 12 and 14 respectively, too young and too unskilled at just about everything to have much of a chance against the others. There were no children younger from any of the other districts. Both of them had died at the Cornucopia even as they tried to follow Mags’ advice to leave that area as quickly as they could. As a result, Mags had spent most of her “free” time in the victors’ lounge, watching the Games with her fellow victors, which was how she found herself in conversation with Lyra and Quintus. Talking to them had been far better than replaying in her head the conversation she’d just had with President Janus.

“I find that it’s sometimes easier to say something you don’t know how to say by simply saying it.” Mags looked up from the spot on the carpet she’d been staring at to find Deenan watching her with at least a touch of sympathy.

“You’re right. This is silly. I faced down tigers and bears in the arena. This is nothing.” Deenan coughed.

“Well, I wouldn’t say nothing…” Mags let out a somewhat breathy laugh as her cheeks grew warm. She flashed Deenan a grin and shrugged, feeling more at ease than she had since she entered the Justice Building.

“I spoke with some of the other victors during the Games,” Mags began, “particularly the victors from Districts One and Two.” Deenan nodded, which Mags took to indicate she was listening. _Just say it, Mags_ , she told herself. Forging ahead, she looked the mayor in the eye and said, “They’ve begun training their children for the Games.”

“But that’s forbidden by the Treaty of Treason.” Letting herself drift back to that afternoon only a few weeks past, Mags began to pace as she waved away Deenan’s concern.

“And yet One and Two are doing it. They’re teaching weapons and strategy and tactics, survival skills and hand-to-hand combat. Anything and everything that might help their children survive.” Mags paused in her pacing and looked up once more at the mayor. “No, not survive. They’re teaching their children to win.” Frowning, Deenan shook her head.

“The risks inherent in such programs are enormous.” Within the caution in the older woman’s voice was mixed a thread of fear and Mags realized that she was old enough to have participated in the rebellion and what the Capitol had begun to refer to as the “Dark Days.” Old enough to have experienced firsthand the Capitol’s punishment, in spite of the fact that she was now in the trusted position of mayor. Taking a deep breath, Mags ran her fingers through her hair, flipping it back, over her shoulder.

“The leaders of their districts feel that the risks are worth it.” She began to pace again. “They’ve built training academies in both districts, although I think they’re running them differently. There aren’t any children ready to graduate yet, but the mentors for both districts think it’s a promising program. In a few more years, they’ll have volunteers to represent their districts in the Games, older children, trained and capable of winning.” Mags shuddered as she thought of little Shareen Rivera, so full of life and optimism when she went into the arena, and so very dead only minutes later. “Volunteers will take the place of the younger children, the little ones who have no chance. No one under the age of sixteen will go to the Games in those districts, once their first training classes are complete.”

Tapping a pencil on her desk, Deenan watched Mags pace. When Mags stopped, standing right in front of the desk, between the twin chairs and squarely in her line of sight, the mayor finally lifted troubled brown eyes to meet Mags’. “I’ll take your proposal to my counselors. Perhaps we can look into training the children in our existing schools, but nothing so intense as actual weapons or combat skills.” The woman shivered, although it wasn’t remotely cool, even in her air conditioned office. “The idea has its appeal, Mags, but it walks a fine line. The Capitol doesn’t like its wishes to be dismissed.”

Mags snorted. “Oh, Miranda, of that I am well aware.”

_1 August, 15_

Silence rolled over the victors’ lounge, emanating from the open door in a dark wave. Victors’ voices fell silent, their movements stilled until the only life in the large room came from the television in the corner. It was just after lunch of the twenty-first – and likely last – day of the 15th Hunger Games and all fourteen victors were in the Capitol that year. Of those fourteen, all but two were in the lounge; Districts 1 and 9, still in the Games, were in the control room at the top of the stairs.

“Good afternoon,” President Horatio Janus greeted them. Belatedly, most of the victors stood, turning as almost one entity to face the president. Woof from District 8 remained seated, staring at the partially completed puzzle before him as though it held all the secrets of the universe within its pieces. Mags settled back into the cushions of her chair and rolled her eyes, covering it up by pretending to continue to read her magazine. Yes, the people of the Capitol had elected the man president, but he was still just a man and not necessarily one worthy of such unquestioning respect.

“Relax, please,” Janus continued. “I was merely in the area and thought I’d stop in to chat. Our people are so very interested in our victors and I realized that I don’t know you all nearly as well as I’d like.” He smiled and stepped farther into the room, allowing the door to close behind him and Mags went back to leafing through her magazine for real. She could practically hear Ewen snarking on the president’s sincerity, given the election coming up in just a few months.

Mags was in the middle of an article about sailing along the scenic shores of District 4 when she became aware of a pair of legs clothed in expensive trousers to the right of her chair. She marked her place in the article – which was well-written if not entirely accurate – with a fingertip and looked up at the smiling face of President Janus. She wondered if he’d dropped that practiced smile even once during his little victor chats; she didn’t return it, merely raised one eyebrow in question.

“Mr. President?”

He cocked his head a little to the right. “Walk with me, Margreta.” Mags froze for just a moment and her heart began to race. A part of her had paid attention to the president’s circuit around the lounge; his little “chats” with the other victors had all been where they sat, including the pair who still had a stake in the Games. Tossing her magazine onto the table in front of her chair with feigned nonchalance, Mags stood. Gracias, mi Dios, she thought as Janus walked toward the door, clearly expecting her to follow; she wasn’t sure how she could have gracefully refused if he had offered her his arm.

“Is there something wrong, Mr. President?” Mags asked as he gestured for her to precede him into the hallway outside the lounge.

“Not at all, Margreta. I simply thought that you might not want our conversation to be overheard.” Her mind raced along with her heart, trying to chase down what he could possibly have to say that she might not want her friends to hear. But he said nothing more, opting to delay their conversation until they reached wherever it was he decided would be a good place to talk.

Janus stopped at the door that led up to the roof. Mystified and more than a little worried, although she tried hard not to show it, Mags followed him up the stairs into bright sunshine and a constant wind that whipped her long hair into her eyes. She held it back with one hand, wishing she had something she could tie it back with as the president studied her with pale brown eyes.

She finally broke the silence. “Why are we here, Mr. President?” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I like you, Margreta. You’re not afraid of me.” He took a step closer and offered her his arm, and because she hadn’t come up with a graceful refusal, she took it. He led her to the edge of the roof and an unobstructed view of the Capitol below. Mags shivered; she wasn’t afraid of heights, but being so high with nothing much between her and the pavement far below left her feeling very exposed.

“The city really is quite beautiful from up here,” Janus observed. He glanced sideways at her. “Even more so at night, when it’s filled with light.” Mags snorted.

“It’s filled with light now, Mr. President.” He looked a question at her. “Sunlight is every bit as beautiful as starlight or moonlight and far more beautiful than artificial light.”

“Such the little rebel, Miss Moreno.” Mags blinked and held her breath. “But then I suppose that’s to be expected of the daughter of a man who fought against the government and a woman convicted of treason in her own right.” Releasing the breath she held, Mags turned to fully face the president.

“My father died fighting against the government, as did my brother, and the government executed my mother for treason. I was only a child, Mr. President. I am no rebel.” She caught and held his gaze. “Why do you wish to talk about my dead family?”

“Family is very important to us all, Margreta.” She must have passed some sort of test; Janus led her away from the edge to the center of the roof before he spoke again. “You are quite popular with the people of Panem, both here in the Capitol and in the districts, particularly your own. The people need to see how happy their victors are and how well you’ve all adjusted to your new circumstances.” Mags snorted again. _Happy? Well-adjusted? My nightmares say otherwise and I don’t think the others are much different._

“Mr. President, I don’t know what you want from me.”

“You in particular have a family history that is, shall we say, at odds with the interests of the Capitol.” A feeling of dread grew inside her like a particularly virulent cancer.

“I have done nothing…”

“You misunderstand me, Margreta,” Janus interrupted. “I wish to strengthen the ties that already exist between the districts and the Capitol. My advisors have devised a plan to achieve that goal, beginning with the happy occasion of a wedding.” She stared at Janus.

“What are you saying? Why are you saying this to _me_?”

“Let us speak plainly. A man has been chosen, a citizen of the Capitol, for you to marry in your sunny District Four. The ceremony will take place during the Victory Tour of our next victor.” Mags listened, appalled and momentarily speechless as the man nattered on. “It would be so much more effective if the new victor was from District Four, but it’s too late for that.”

“What if I refuse?” _Madre de Dios. Ewen…_ The president’s face darkened and his eyes narrowed.

“That is of course your right,” he answered, but Mags barely heard him.

“What if I fall in love with someone else? What if I marry him instead?”

“That is your right as well, Miss Moreno, but I would advise against it. Life is all too brief and filled with little dangers. Accidents do happen.”


	3. The Innocent

_21 September, 13_

They moved together, if not quite as one, near enough that the slight differences in their rhythm didn’t matter. They had fallen together onto her bed, splashed with moonlight; she led and he followed, skin sliding against skin as clothing fell away seemingly of its own will. His mouth tasted of the sweet wine she’d bought at the street fair, his skin of salt and of tangy spice. His ready laughter when they fell shot through her like lightning and, like his touch, left her tingling and wanting more.

But Mags had never even kissed a boy before that night, and when she hesitated, self-conscious in the face of her own inexperience, Ewen stopped, muscles trembling with the effort.

“Do you want me to leave?” His voice was rough, nothing like the young man with whom she’d spent the last few hours talking and laughing.

“Stay.” She moved beneath him, shifted, felt the heat of him between her thighs as she reached up to tangle her fingers in his soft, dark hair. “I want you to stay.” She nipped at his chin and bucked up against him. “I want you.”

_20 September, 13_

Mags stumbled, her ankle twisted, and the only thing that saved her from going down in the middle of the crowded street was Aleen’s grip on her arm.

“Sorry!” a dark-haired, olive-skinned man called as he turned toward them and began to walk backwards. “I didn’t mean to run you down like that.” Once she recovered from stumbling into Allie, Mags looked up at the young man who had bumped her on his way past, wondering how he managed to not crash into anyone else.

“How _did_ you mean to run me down?” she called to him and he stopped abruptly, forcing the moving crowd to part around him while Mags caught up. He blinked once and then, when she stood right in front of him, his gaze focused sharply on her face before he broke into a wide grin. He had a dimple on the left side of his mouth and crinkles at the corners of his black eyes, though she judged he wasn’t much older than Mags herself. He didn’t answer her question, just saluted her and moved on, walking backwards a few more paces, still grinning, before turning to disappear into the crowd.

“What was that about?” The question didn’t sink in until Allie snapped her fingers in front of Mags’ eyes, and only then did Mags drag her gaze away from the spot where the impudent young man had disappeared. It occurred to her that it was the second time Allie had asked the question. With another quick glance toward where the slim figure had been, she frowned. Something was off.

“What’s wrong?” Allie asked, seeing her frown.

Mags looked down at her left arm, the same side the young man had jostled, and then held her naked wrist up for Allie to see. “That son of a bitch stole my bracelet.” It wasn’t anything fancy or even valuable, just a thin gold bangle, but it was one of the few things she had that had belonged to her mother and it was gone. Allie’s mouth dropped open.

“We should report it to the Peacekeepers.”

Mags shook her head. “No. It’s really not worth it.” Even now, years after the end of a rebellion she had been too young to be a part of, Mags didn’t want to deal with Peacekeepers if she didn’t absolutely have to. He hadn’t taken her money or Allie’s and he hadn’t hurt either of them. Maybe if she saw him again, stealing from someone else, she’d report him. Or maybe she’d give him the thumping he deserved and take her bracelet back. The thought made her smile.

Throughout the rest of that day, Mags caught glimpses of her thief as he worked the street fair. It quickly became obvious that he stole from those who appeared to be wealthier than the average district citizen or from Capitol tourists, who were by definition wealthy or they couldn’t afford to be in District 4. That explained why he had taken something from her but not Allie: Mags wasn’t wealthy, but she definitely stood out from the rest of her fellow citizens, including her newly married sister. Allie and Etienne weren’t poor, but neither were they well enough off that they could afford to spend much on fancy clothes or jewelry.

Later that afternoon, following a quick meal of fish tacos, Mags and Allie watched a pair of dancers in the center of the town square. She spotted her thief on the edge of the crowd about twenty feet away; rather than watching the dancers, he watched her. Lifting her left wrist high, Mags pointed at it.

“I want it back!” she shouted over the music and hundreds of voices. His response was an exaggerated shrug before melting with ease back into the press of people around him. It was so smoothly done that Mags wondered if cutting purses and picking pockets was how he made his living.

The sun was sinking lower in the sky when she and Allie made their way back to the quay. Allie had gotten word from Etienne that the trawler he worked on had docked and he could meet her there as soon as he was released. Mags was tired and didn’t want to be a third wheel between Allie and Etienne, so she planned to take her little speed boat and head back to her lonely home on Victor’s Island. But before she and Allie reached the quay, they heard angry sounding shouts accompanied by the sound of running feet on the boardwalk behind them.

Turning, Mags saw her thief pounding along the boardwalk, a pair of Peacekeepers on his heels. He tossed the sack he carried to someone in the crowd and kept running, heading straight toward Allie and Mags, although it didn’t appear as though either he or the men who chased him had seen them. Making a snap decision, Mags picked up her skirts and ran toward the trio.

“Mags! What are you doing?” Mags didn’t answer Allie, just charged toward her thief. When she was close enough, she snagged his arm, nearly pulling them both over, and dragged him into a nearby alley.

“What—?”

“Follow me!” She sprinted down the alley toward another side street, the young man following right behind. Rounding the corner, she headed for the wharf and, as soon as they reached the edge, she grabbed his hand and pulled him along with her as she jumped into the water, dragging him under the structure of the pier. Surfacing once more, fighting the need to laugh, she held a finger to her lips. She heard shouts from above, back in the direction where she had left Aleen.

It took several tense minutes of treading water and staying quiet before the Peacekeepers gave up their search. At one point, they were right overhead, but Mags heard a woman call to them frantically, screaming that she saw the thieves heading “that way.” The woman sounded suspiciously like Allie and Mags felt laughter bubbling up from inside once more.

“Why did you help me?” her thief whispered after a few minutes of relative quiet on the docks surrounding them. It wasn’t truly quiet, but there were no more shouts of alarm or harsh sounds of booted footsteps and Mags let her laughter run free.

“Because I wanted to,” she told him, but in truth, she didn’t know why. He stared at her with intense dark eyes and to cover up sudden embarrassment, she swam a little away from him, toward a ladder up to the pier.

“Come,” she said, “you should leave here before they decide to come back.” She was halfway up the ladder before she heard him follow her, and she sat on the edge of the dock with her feet dangling in air and wringing the water from her hair when he finally sat down beside her.

“I’m Ewen,” he told her. “Ewen Salazar.” His expression was friendly, but there was still a wary air about him.

“Ha! You are a thief, Mr. Salazar,” she accused as she wound her still wet hair into a knot, pulling the ends of it through the middle with a hooked finger to keep it out of her way. It would take her a while to release the knot once she was home, but at least it wouldn’t bother her until then. “How do I know that’s your real name?” Ewen Salazar grinned, white teeth flashing in the sunset’s golden light.

“You don’t,” he told her, “but I swear to it.” He studied her face, his gaze dancing over her features, lingering on her mouth for a moment before meeting her eyes once more; Mags felt herself blush at the scrutiny. He wasn’t handsome, but there was something about him that called to her.

“What’s your name?” he asked and the look in his eyes told her that he had noticed her blush. He gave no indication that he planned to leave her. Mags blinked and abruptly stood.

“I have to go,” she announced. “Allie will be worried.” She walked quickly away from this dangerous young man.

“Wait!” he called. “Tell me your name!” She stopped, her still soaked skirt clinging to her legs. “Please.”

Cursing herself for a fool, she turned around and called, “Margreta Moreno. But you may call me Mags.” Spinning around again, she hurried away from him. Allie would be with Etienne by now, but the slip housing Mags’ boat wasn’t far. _I could be safe at home in less than an hour_ , she thought, tugging her heavy skirt from around her knees. The thought was somehow less appealing than it had been less than an hour ago.

She took another three steps along the wharf before stopping in frustration, yanking the soaked fabric away from her skin. She tugged the back hem of it up between her legs and secured it beneath her belt, making pantaloons of the offending skirt. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was better than the damned thing tangling up her legs every few steps.

“Do you have to leave?”

“Dulce madre de Dios.” Such was her irritation that she hadn’t heard him approach. Or perhaps he was just that quiet. This time his grin was more of a smirk.

“Are you hungry? We could—”

“No, we could not. I want my bracelet back, Ewen Salazar.” His mouth closed with an audible snap of teeth. She waited a moment, but he said nothing, although his smirk faded. “That’s what I thought.” Mags turned her back on him and continued walking. If he followed her all the way to her boat, she would push him back into the harbor.

“I don’t have it,” he called to her back. “It was in the sack.” She stopped again, then turned and stalked back to where he stood. He no longer looked amused. “I can get it for you, but not tonight.”

“When?” Again, he hesitated and yet again Mags whirled away from him, shaking her head in aggravation. He grabbed her arm and she turned on him, but he had already released her and raised his arms in a show of surrender.

“I’m sorry. You’re not what I thought you were. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have taken it.” Gone was the grinning thief, replaced by a much more serious young man. In spite of herself, Mags was intrigued.

“And what do you think I am, Ewen Salazar?” This time, he started to answer her question, but she made a sharp chopping motion with her hand, cutting at his words as if cutting at one of the creatures in the arena. “I know what you thought, but I am not rich, nor am I from the Capitol.” She swallowed the rest of what she might have said, instead letting him off the hook. “It was my mother’s. It’s all I have left of her.”

“I’ll give it back to you, Mags.” She caught his gaze with hers and he didn’t look away, not even when she let her own gaze drop to study him more closely. His hair was a shade too long, his clothes were simple, the same as anyone in 4 would wear, but threadbare in places and faded from many washings. The young man himself was thin, the bones of his face prominent in the fading light.

She nodded and walked away once more; she would not turn around again. If he followed, he followed. Part of her hoped that he would and she half smiled a moment later when she heard him hurry to catch up with her, falling into step a pace behind on the narrow way. He stayed with her, neither of them speaking, until she reached her boat and jumped aboard, and there he stopped.

Glancing up at him, Mags asked, “Are you coming?” He frowned and she expected him to leave her there, but he surprised her again. Still frowning, he unwound the rope that held the boat in place and jumped the gap, setting the little vessel rocking wildly. Mags was already seated behind the wheel or she would have fallen.

“Where are we going?” he asked when the rocking calmed.

“To my home.”

“You’d take a stranger, one who stole from you and who the Peacekeepers chased, to your home?” And it was her turn to grin at him.

“I’ll take my chances.” One fine dark eyebrow lifted.

“I might kill you,” he said, dark eyes dancing in the bright orange lights that lit the wharf.

“I don’t think so. Killing someone is not so easy a thing.” He snorted.

“As if you’d know…”

“Were you not paying attention when I told you my name? Margreta Moreno? I’m the victor of the 10th Hunger Games.” Both eyebrows shot upward.

“Oh. So you’re dangerous.” He smiled at her then, lighting up the descending night. “I guess I’d best let you have your way with me then, Margreta Moreno.”

_29 July, 10_

Plant the walking stick in the ground. Step with her left foot. Drag her right forward to match. Stop to rest.

Putting one foot in front of the other was the most difficult thing Mags had ever done. She had no idea how long she’d been in the arena. She’d been alone for so long. There had been a cannon sound earlier that day. Or maybe it was good, clean thunder. But if it had been thunder, there would have been rain, wouldn’t there? Water falling from the sky so that she could just lie down on the hard ground and let it fill her mouth and wash away the blood and grime. Wash away the things she’d done.

Her eyes were gummy. She couldn’t see, not properly. Things were blurry and washed out. She needed water. She’d stopped being hungry days ago, had passed into a state of numb emptiness, an ache through her body that went bone deep and that she knew would never go away. How much longer could she last without water?

Stick in the ground. Left foot forward. Drag the right.

She thought maybe there should be pain from the torn meat of her right leg, but there was nothing. Her leg was little more than a nearly dead thing hanging from her hip; she had just enough control of it that she didn’t fall, even though she felt nothing. The cat, huge and striped, that had mauled her was dead, long dead, become food for herself and maybe for her fellow tributes and definitely for some other large animal, but she hadn’t stayed long enough to find out just what.

Stick in the ground. Left foot forward.

Mags stumbled when her left foot hit something soft and yielding in her path. After a moment she realized the sound she heard was a human voice and she looked down at the boy she had kicked.

“Who…?” She tried to swallow, but there was no moisture to ease the croak of her voice.

The boy moaned again and began to cough. Mags lowered herself to the ground beside him, hoping that she wasn’t making a monumental mistake. By the time she was sitting beside him, she couldn’t remember why she was there.

“Who…?” she rasped again.

“Doesn’t matter.” The quiet, scratchy words set him to coughing again. He struggled to sit up and Mags reached out a hand to help him, fingers closing around a bicep that seemed thinner than her own wrist. His breath rattled in his chest, but he forced out a couple of words, once he was sitting more or less upright. “Kill me.”

Those words echoed in Mags’ head. _Kill me kill me killmekillmekillme._ She scooted closer to him and wrapped her arm around his thin shoulders. “Are you sure?”

“I can’t” cough “do this any” cough “anymore.” He lifted pale, pleading eyes. “Please. I’m done.”

Mags nodded once. She squeezed the boy’s shoulders and then shifted until she knelt in front of him. Leaning forward, she kissed him on the forehead and whispered “I’m sorry” just before she snapped his neck. A cannon sounded. Or maybe it was thunder. She thought the boy smiled, but her eyes were still gummy. She still couldn’t see clearly. She couldn’t see and she couldn’t stand. Her right leg wouldn’t obey her anymore, so she sat beside the newly dead boy and waited for death to claim her, too.

An eternity later, a thumping sound grew louder and louder and Mags looked up to watch the blurry specter of death come for her, riding on the ladder that dangled beneath a Capitol hovercraft.

_17 July, 10_

Mags woke to the sound of screaming. Only half awake, she rolled to her knees, grasping the hilt of her knife and pulling it from where she’d left it, stuck in the ground by her head. She ignored the painful stretching of the scabs on her left arm and across her torso where the beast Eamon called a hyena had mauled her two days before. Another sharp cry, quickly cut off, and Mags scrabbled to her feet.

The voice belonged to Eamon.

She ran for all she was worth toward the center of the clearing, assessing the situation as she ran. Two combatants were backlit by the fire, their hands around each other’s throats and at first she thought they were under attack by another alliance. But then she saw Maximus from 2 lying on the bloody ground, Whit from 7 lying sprawled across his legs, both of them dead, judging by the way they stared up at the sky.

Before she could reach the backlit pair, the girl – Calliope – jerked free and ran for her district partner’s body. She pulled a knife from Max’s hand and whirled, sinking it into Eamon’s stomach before shoving him with all her strength. He stumbled backward, clutching at the knife as he fell into their small campfire, scattering it. A few of the embers landed in the sack of absorbent moss they’d collected to use as bandages.

Something hit Mags from behind, sending her to her knees, but she’d been expecting it – everyone else was accounted for except Phoebe, Whit’s partner. She suspected that Phoebe had been set to kill Mags, but hadn’t done it yet because Mags wasn’t where she was supposed to be. She’d gone a little further outside the circle of their camp to sleep, and that had saved her life, although she’d like to think that maybe Phoebe hesitated because she and Mags were something like friends.

Mags rolled to her back, just in time to meet Phoebe’s second attack. Even as the two fought for control, Mags saw the sack of moss ignite and, from the corner of her eye, saw Calliope watching Eamon as he choked on his own blood. With an animal cry of pain that had nothing to do with any physical injury, Mags turned on Phoebe with a fury that shocked her. Surprised at the sudden rage of her enemy, Phoebe stared wide-eyed at Mags as Mags pushed her knife up under her chin, killing her instantly. It was a move Max had shown her during training, when they’d first talked about an alliance.

Calliope left Eamon where he was and came for Mags as the flames from the moss rose higher. If there were any other tributes around, it would be an ideal time to attack. Mags met her, fury unabated and fueled by her fear for Eamon. The fight was brief and left Calli lying on her back, her stomach sliced open as Mags ran for her cousin. But she was too late.

Shivering with the cold of shock, Mags walked back over to Calli and dropped to her knees beside the older girl. “Why?” she asked and Calli stared at her, the fire that engulfed the rest of their supplies flickering in her dark eyes. The smell of cooking meat rose up with the smoke and Mags shuddered, gagging.

“You know why, Mags. There’s only one victor.” Calli’s voice was weak.

“Not that. I don’t blame you for that. Why did you leave Eamon to die like that? Why not kill him cleanly?” Calliope opened her mouth and closed it again, reminding Mags of a stranded fish, gasping for air. “That’s what I thought.” Regaining her feet, Mags slid her knife into her belt and picked up Calli’s as well. No need to waste it. She looked over at Eamon, her eyes misting over. Angrily, she dashed away the tears and started walking.

“Mags! You can’t leave me like this.” Mags looked back over her shoulder at the girl who could have been her friend. She could forgive a lot of things, especially in the context of the Games, but not the cruelty Calli had shown herself capable of. Mags turned her back on Calli and began once more to walk.

“Watch me.”

_12 July, 10_

“Eamon!”

Her cousin talked to Maximus from District 2 in the far corner of the room and Mags pounded a fist on her thigh in frustration. The sheer volume of sound produced by so many voices in such a small space was nearly deafening.

“It sounds kind of like a stockyard in here,” Terence Delgado of District 10 observed. “Can’t hear yourself think.”

He was right about that. Whatever the problem was with the lifts that took the tributes from the launch room into the arena, it left all twenty-four tributes and their mentors standing around waiting. There was nothing to do to take their mind off the impending start of the Games except talk. And talk. _Oh, and maybe shout across the room for your district partner for good measure_ , Mags thought as she shouted Eamon’s name once more. Still no response.

“Do you know what’s wrong with the platforms?” Mags asked, keeping her eye on Eamon for another chance to get his attention.

“Two of them blew up when they did a test run just before we got here,” Phoebe from District 7 answered. Terence whistled at that.

“That’d be a pretty short event, now, wouldn’t it?” Many noisy yards away, Eamon turned away from Maximus to look over the crowd and Mags waved at him to join her, but he didn’t seem to see her.

“Eamon, you stupid…” Mags muttered before cupping her hands around her mouth and shouting, “Eamon Oshay! ¡Venga acá inmediatamente!” Her cousin turned around and found her in the crowd and Mags gestured emphatically for him to join her.

At first, all she had wanted was to go over their strategy one more time, since they had this extra time on their hands. But it had taken so long to get Eamon’s attention and with the talk of exploding platforms and the possibility of not surviving long enough to even enter the arena, with the realization that one or both of them could be dead in a matter of hours if not minutes, Mags needed to have him with her.

Quite simply, she was suddenly terrified and he was all she had.

A moment later, he was there. “Mags, what…?” His calm voice and steadying hand on her arm opened a floodgate and all her fears and all her ideas to keep them both alive spilled out at once in a steady flow of Castellan. He answered her in kind, reassuring her that he’d be right there by her side, that they were a team until they couldn’t be together any longer.

When the light began to flash overhead and the disembodied voice ordered the tributes to take their places, Mags felt a little steadier, but she was no less terrified of what lay ahead.

_4 July, 10_

Mags and Aleen clung tightly to each other’s hands. It was their fourth Reaping Day and they just wanted it to be over. Mags stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed on a spot of bird shit that streaked down the front of the stage, thinking about the math test next week that she had to study for. When Allie tugged at her hand, she tore her gaze away from the white streak and looked over at her best friend, her cousin, her sister in every way but birth.

“Don’t look now, but I think Riley Odair is watching you.” Of course Mags looked, just as Allie knew she would. The bronze-haired boy was the most popular boy in their class and he and Mags had been flirting for weeks, both at school and when he came to the house to spend time with Allie’s brother Eamon, but she knew nothing would come of it. The Odairs were one of the more well-off families in the district, having not been so openly active in the rebellion. The Morenos and the Oshays, on the other hand…

An ear-splitting screech filled the air and drew everyone’s attention to the man dressed in fuchsia who glared at the microphone in front of him as though it were a snake. Mags fought down the urge to giggle; Allie’s elbow in her ribs didn’t help. Gregory Parnassus loudly cleared his throat, causing another spate of deafening feedback.

“Citizens of District Four, it is time to select the young woman and man to represent your district in the tenth annual Hunger Games.” He beckoned toward someone just out of Mags’ line of sight and a girl and boy came forward carrying a pair of large glass spheres. The boy tripped and nearly dropped the ball-shaped bowl, which held the names of every boy of reaping age in the district. It wouldn’t have been a disaster, by any means, but it was a windy day and it might have allowed several names to blow away on the breeze.

Parnassus drew a name from the bowl held tightly in the girls’ hands. Unfolding the paper as though it was a document of irreplaceable value, he read in solemn tones, “The female tribute for District Four is Margreta Moreno.”

Beside her Allie gasped. Mags looked around at the other girls nearby, but it wasn’t until she saw them all looking at her that the name sank in. Her eyes widened and her heart began to pound as Aleen grabbed her hand.

“Miss Moreno, please join me,” Parnassus said, and Mags tried, but Allie wouldn’t let go of her hand.

“Allie, I have to go,” Mags whispered, but Allie only shook her head and clung more tightly until Mags finally had to pry her fingers off.

Kissing Allie on the cheek, Mags walked with as much dignity as she could up the stairs, praying that she wouldn’t trip. She took her place on the stage a little bit behind Parnassus and thought there was no way this day could be any worse. But then Parnassus drew the boy’s name.

“The male representative for District Four this year is Eamon Oshay.”

There was a shuffling shifting in the crowd and then it parted, allowing Mags to see a man’s body lying on the ground. She knew without being able to see his face that it was Tio Carlos, who, within less than a five-minute span, had just lost his son and his adopted daughter to the arena.

_17 October, 3_

Carlos Oshay held the girls tightly by the hand, his daughter Aleen on his right and Mags on his left; his son Eamon stood on Aleen’s other side. Tears tracked down Carlos’ face, shining in the early morning sunshine and he was shaking, repeating “Dios, por favor, no deje a esto pasar” under his breath, over and over. _Please God don’t let this happen._ Tio Carlos knew why they were there, but none of the three children did, and Mags wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Tio Carlos never cried. Mags squeezed his hand and looked up at him, but he didn’t respond, not even to squeeze her own hand more tightly, and so she looked once more at the stage in front of the Justice Building.

She had been here three times before, each time for a reaping. Mama told her that she’d be here at least once a year, always for Reaping Day, for the rest of her life, but this was the second time this year. The front of the stage was different than it had been for Reaping Day: instead of the usual black curtain that fell from the stage to the ground, today it looked more like some kind of squishy sidewalk turned into a wall. It was gray and ugly and right in the center of it was what she heard someone in the crowd call the seal of Panem.

Something happened up on the stage, but Mags was too short to see. People all around them started muttering, but she couldn’t hear what they said. After a minute or so, the man from the Capitol who announced the Hunger Games’ tributes every year stepped to the edge of the stage and tapped on the microphone.

“Citizens of District Four,” he began, “you are gathered to witness the administration of justice to those of your district found guilty of crimes against the nation of Panem.” He paused and looked out over the crowd in the square. “Your nation.” A door opened in the building behind the stage and Peacekeepers filed out, leading and accompanying several men and women. Mags saw her mama, Tia Kathleen right behind her, and she wanted to wave, but Tio Carlos wouldn’t let go of her hand.

“Why are Mama and Tia Kathleen with the Peacekeepers?” she asked. She no longer wanted to wave to Mama; she wanted to run to her and bury her face against her stomach. She wanted Mama to hold her and tell her it would be okay. Mama wasn’t there when Mags and Aleen came home from school two days before, and then Tio Carlos was on the phone for hours yesterday, but he never was able to tell the girls where their mothers were. Or maybe he knew, like now, but didn’t want to tell them.

Tio Carlos was scared.

“The men and women you see before you are guilty of treason against the government of Panem.” The people the Peacekeepers led from the Justice Building stood in a line along the weird backdrop in front of the stage. “They shall be executed in public forum as an example so that others of your district will not repeat their crime.” He said a name and the first man in the line stiffened, raised his head high, but he didn’t say anything, nor did the man beside him at his name.

He read name after name from the paper in his hands; at first Mags tried to count them, but she stopped when he called Kathleen Oshay and Tio Carlos almost crushed her hand. Then he read “Renata Moreno” and Mags almost missed it, because he didn’t say it right. Reenata Moreeno. Mags peeked around the woman in front of her and saw that her mama stood almost in front of her, but too far away, and she called out, “Mama!” Mama jerked at the sound of Mags’ voice. Mags’ whimpered, but she stopped it before she could start to cry. Crying was for babies and she was no baby. She was almost nine.

There were six more names after Mama’s and then the Capitol man said, “You have been found guilty of fomenting rebellion by speaking a language known by the government of Panem to be used as an instrument of dissension. The language known as ‘Castellan’” – he said it like “cast a yawn” – “was outlawed and declared treasonous two years ago. You were given a full year to eradicate its usage in both written and spoken form. The government of Panem has been lenient in allowing extra time for these acts of rebellion to stop, but this time of lenience is at an end.”

When he stopped talking, the Peacekeepers formed a line of their own, in between the crowd and those lined up against the stage. As one, they raised their rifles.

Mags began to scream.

_4 July, 1_

Holding her mama’s hand, Mags watched as a man wearing brightly colored clothes and with long, flowing orange hair stepped up to the microphone. He stood with a scared-looking man Mama said was the mayor on the big stage the soldiers had built in front of the Justice Building. When she’d asked Mama what “justice” meant, Mama had said she didn’t know anymore, so Mags didn’t know what the ugly building was for.

The pretty man unrolled some paper from around a stick and began to read. Mama tightened her fingers around Mags’ hand, but Mags wasn’t even trying to get away. The town square smelled of sawdust and brick dust and always, always of fish and there weren’t any explosions today or any fires. Not like last autumn, when the soldiers came.

The man’s voice droned on and on and Mags swayed on her feet, feeling sleepy. Mama’s hand kept her from falling down, but she must have fallen asleep somehow. The man said something much louder, so loud it made Mags jump. Behind her, someone started crying.

“Ladies and gentlemen of District Four, I present to you your tributes to the First Annual Hunger Games, Reynaldo Salazar and Shevon Magregor.”

Mags decided she’d ask Mama later what he meant by District 4 or Hunger Games. She never really felt like playing games when she was hungry, which was almost all the time since Papa and Ricky went away. 

“Can we go home now, Mama?” she asked, looking up at her mother. “I want to play with Allie and Osito.” Mama squeezed her hand so hard it almost hurt and she looked like she wanted to cry.

_10 December, 2219_

Mama and Tia Kathleen sat by the fire, knitting and talking, talking and knitting, while Tio Carlos scribbled something into a notebook by the light of a tin lantern. Other than the flickering fire, it was the only light in the room. Something in Mama’s voice made Mags look up from the game she played with Aleen and she lost her place.

“I’m so angry with him for leaving us like this,” Mama said, but she didn’t sound mad. Her voice was wobbly, and Mags thought she might cry again.

“You know why he and Rick left, Ren. He had to—”

“No, I know why he – _they_ – left, Kath. We discussed it and we both agreed it was the right thing to do.” Aleen’s mama laid her knitting down in her lap.

“You mean you’re angry because” – she glanced over at Mags and Allie and lowered her voice – “he died.” Mama nodded and lifted a hand to her eyes. Her ball of yarn rolled off her lap and across the floor, straight toward Allie. Before Mags could jump up and take it back to Mama, Allie had already grabbed it and reached toward Mags’ mama.

“Don’t be said, Tia Renata,” she told her. “I’m glad you and Mags live with us. Mags and I are sisters now.” Mags and her mama and even Osito had moved into the Oshay’s slightly larger house just the day before and they were still getting used to everything, and while Mags was happy enough about it, Mama wasn’t, but she still smiled down at Aleen and took the ball of yarn from her.

“You are sisters now, Allie, just like your mama and me.”

_27 November, 2219_

Mags tried to squirm out of her mama’s grip when the soldiers came, but Mama wouldn’t let her go. All Mags wanted was to take Osito, run into the trees, and climb as high as she could so the soldiers wouldn’t find her. She hadn’t yet worked out the logistics of getting Osito, who was bigger than she was, up in the tree with her. She almost made it away, but Mama chased after her and grabbed her wrist, swinging her up into her arms as people ran screaming and shouting through the streets.

“Magsie, bambina, don’t run away from Mama again,” Mama said to her. “Dulce madre de Dios, I can’t lose you, too.” Mags didn’t know what that meant, but it scared her because Mama was scared. Osito wouldn’t stop barking, and he sounded so strange; that scared Mags more than anything else, Osito’s bark and the way he kept showing his teeth, and she started to cry. Mama’s grip loosened just a little on her wrist and she shifted Mags on her shoulder, holding her even tighter, but it didn’t hurt anymore. “Hush, baby, hush.” Mags did her best to stop crying, but she couldn’t wipe her nose and so she couldn’t stop sniffling.

“Renata!” Tia Kathleen shouted Mama’s name as she ran to her and Mags, practically dragging Mags’ best friend along behind her. “Have you heard anything about Stephen or Enrique?” Tia Kathleen asked. She picked Allie up as she spoke, putting her on the same level as Mags.

Staring at Allie, who looked scared enough to scream her head off, like when Sean Macray threw a lizard at her and it got stuck in her hair, Mags held her breath. A man had visited Mama early that morning and said something about her papa and her brother that had made Mama fall to the ground. That had scared Mags almost as much as the soldiers. Watching Aleen now, who started crying like a little baby, Mags felt better, somehow. She thought that maybe she herself was so scared of so many things – what had happened to Papa and to Ricky? – that maybe she wasn’t really scared anymore.

“Oh, Kath…” Something exploded nearby, showering them with hot chunks of whatever it used to be, and Tia Kathleen grabbed Mama’s free hand so she could drag Mama into a doorway. Something else exploded in the distance and both women looked toward a cloud of smoke and flames at the end of the road. Osito finally stopped barking, staying close to Mama and Mags. Sounding breathless, Mama said to Tia Kathleen, “Oh, Kath, I was just coming to see you. They’re gone. I received word just before the government soldiers came that—”

_“Your rebellion is over.”_ A man’s voice echoed above the explosions and the shouting. _“In the name of the President of Panem, stand down and you will not be harmed.”_ The message repeated over and over again as a line of trucks drove through the town square; Mags didn’t think the voice sounded real.

In spite of what the man in the trucks said, sharp cracks of sound came at them from all around and something whined past Mags’ head just before pieces of the stucco wall beside them exploded outward in a stinging spray. Osito started snarling and Mags’ eyes widened as she watched a group of soldiers rush toward them.

“Mama!” she shouted, even though Mama’s ear was right beside Mags’ mouth. Osito jumped in between Mama and Tia Kathleen and the soldiers. He snarled more and growled, facing the soldiers with his teeth bared. A soldier raised his gun and pointed it at Osito and Mags shrieked, struggling to break free of Mama’s arms to save her dog.

_2 February, 2214_

The tiny, red-faced, wrinkled infant girl screamed her rage at the indignity of being born as the midwife gently handed her to her father. After holding her for a moment, he carefully laid the little one on his wife’s chest and stroked her sweat-soaked hair from her forehead. She laughed and, as exhausted as she was, reached out a hand to her husband, her eyes dancing with joy as her body could not, just then. Craning her neck, she looked down at the fuzzy top of her daughter’s head.

“Oh, Margreta, my love, your papa and I have such dreams for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> This started out life as a pinch hit for Poetry in the Rare Women exchange, but ended up not being needed. And then I was going to post it as a treat anyway, because the prompt - _Mags is a badass. What I find so fascinating about her is that she's the only one in the series to remember what life was like before the Hunger Games – and she was one of the first Victors of the Games. Any backstory on her would be great. Also, two headcanons I have about her that you are free to run with: first, that the reason Finnick has to translate for her is because she speaks Spanish, and second, that she was one of the masterminds, if not the mastermind, of the Second Rebellion._ \- was straight from my own headcanon (alluded to in Treading Water), but I missed the deadline. That's okay, though. It just gave me time to give Mags even more of a history. :)


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